


unsaid

by honeyteeth



Category: Lupin III
Genre: Blood, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Gunshot Wounds, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Memories, Unrequited Love, Violence, unrequited because one of them is dead lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:07:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26741872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyteeth/pseuds/honeyteeth
Summary: Lupin has to come to terms with the fact that nothing will ever be the same.
Relationships: Arsène Lupin III/Zenigata Kouichi
Comments: 22
Kudos: 59





	unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> writing this made my damb tummy hurt 🗿🗿

It was dirty, to say the least. 

It was dirty and it was sick and it made Lupin’s blood boil as his legs pumped harder than they ever had before towards the falling, shock-stricken body of inspector Zenigata. His ears were ringing, hand already shooting towards his shoulder holster as red blurred his vision and a scream was ripped right from his throat as though the devil himself had possessed the bloodthirsty thief. 

The dark streets were overwhelmingly loud, the scent of copper filling the electric air, the wail of police sirens muting everybody as commands and shocked exclamations were distributed throughout the busy night. Lupin could barely  _ breathe,  _ his head spinning far too fast on his shoulders for him to concentrate, and his senses filled with  _ rage.  _ Pure, unfiltered hatred, the kind that seeps into the marrow of your very bones and controls every nerve in your body. He was blind with it, dizzy with it, stomach twisting sickeningly, hands trembling so violently he feared he may drop his gun. 

However, as he extended his arm, aiming the weapon at the coward who was  _ supposed  _ to be Zenigata’s temporary partner, he squeezed the trigger with his index finger and didn’t stop until his trusty Walther was completely emptied. Eight, loud bangs cut through the night, but only two of the bullets that whizzed through the darkness buried themselves in the desired target, the man wailing out in pain as his shoulder and left leg were injured. 

Lupin didn’t even know who this guy  _ was.  _ Agent something-or-another, tall and sleazier than a used car salesman with slicked-back hair and a knack for flirting with poor, unconsenting women who was assigned by a very ignorant commissioner to aid Zenigata with Lupin’s case for a little while, at least in the area of Rome that they were currently residing in. See, the thief had entered the country with his merry band of misfits to steal… well, he was going to steal… to steal…

...he didn’t quite remember what it was he had been trying to take. 

It didn’t matter, though. Not at this point. He couldn’t care less what the object had been, for now, the only thing on his mind was Zenigata, who was lying in the middle of the street with a pair of bullet wounds right through his bleeding, heaving chest, looking weak and tired and struggling to breathe.

The ringing in Lupin’s skull reverberated so loudly it felt as though his very eardrums were going to burst but he didn’t care, not even a little. He had one mission only: to kill that traitorous motherfucker who was limping his pitiful, wounded body over to an unoccupied police cruiser, leg dragging uselessly on the concrete, blood spilling from the wound in his thigh as he tried to press against the other bullet hole in his shoulder, crimson gushing from between his pale, pale fingertips. He was trying to run away. After what he had done, after the lies he had told, after pulling the damn trigger, he was trying to  _ run away.  _

Lupin, however, wasn’t going to let that happen, not on his watch. He wanted that fucker’s head. He wanted that fucker’s  _ brains.  _ It showed in the roaring flames of his eyes as he sped towards the filthy scum, his teeth grit hard enough to grind, pupils blown wide and wild, another scream threatening to escape his tightened throat, anger white-hot and constricting his very lungs. 

In his peripheral, he could see Goemon and Jigen and the Fiat speeding towards the scene, tires screeching as it skidded to a halt, Fujiko’s bright red hair spilling from the driver’s side window as she popped her head out, steadily aiming a small pistol and shooting a nice, clean shot at a police car’s windshield, shattering it immediately. Meanwhile, Goemon was helping Jigen scoop Zenigata up from the concrete, his body soaked with blood, the gore dripping onto the ground, creating slick pools that made the samurai and gunman slip three times over as they desperately scrambled to get him to the car. They were yelling something-- Lupin couldn’t hear what, though-- and Fujiko was revving the engine, telling them without words to  _ get a move on.  _

Lupin knew that he would have to go soon, too, knew that he would have to run to the Fiat and sit with Zenigata and make sure that he made it out of this alive and well because he  _ would.  _ He wasn’t going to die, and Lupin was going to make damn sure of that. But first… first, he had something he had to do.

He had never been one for bloodlust, had never believed too heavily in killing his opponents, but this was different. An eye for an eye, mother _fucker,_ he thought bitterly, and he felt the way his stomach churned and threatened to empty out onto the sidewalk, dizziness beginning to set in. His legs were on fire, his eyes were stinging. He couldn’t breathe anymore, having used up all of the air in his tight, tight lungs, not even realizing he had been shrieking at the man who had shot his inspector. _His_ Zenigata.

He was out of bullets (he tried to shoot again but got nothing but a steady  _ click… click… click)  _ so he shoved his Walther back into its holster and began to roll up his sleeves, ready to break the phony agent’s nose right on impact, preparing himself to kill a man using his knuckles because by God he was going to. He was going to kill this man, and nothing was going to stop him. There wasn’t a single force on earth that could even  _ slow  _ him.

...but then he heard it. Faint, at first, but then a little louder, though not nearly as loud as the rush of blood in Lupin’s ears. Over and over he heard it, ‘til finally, the noise registered in Lupin’s head as Zenigata, quiet and weak and choking on his own blood, mewling out the thief’s name from the back of the Fiat as Goemon attempted to gently shush him. 

The world stopped spinning all at once. Everything went silent. The sirens, the shouting, the gunshots, the honking of distant car horns--  _ everything.  _ Lupin froze, breath coming out in sloppy, unregulated stutters, heart hammering away beneath the bones of his ribs. He felt dizzy like he was going to pass out, like he was going to die right then and there on the cold, hard concrete. He had never heard his name uttered like that before. Never so quietly. Never so desperately. Zenigata  _ needed  _ him. He needed Lupin to be there with him. 

Lupin was not about to deny him that.

With one final look at the imposter policeman, already being cuffed and apprehended by some of Zenigata’s own crew, he pivoted on his heel and directed his attention towards the Fiat, sprinting as fast as he could, arms pumping at his sides as he made a beeline right for the backseat. He was needed. He had to  _ be there.  _ Because he was going to keep Zenigata alive, he was going to keep him stable and breathing and he was going to make sure that he made it to the hospital alright. He couldn’t die, wasn’t allowed to, not without Lupin, at least. That’s how it was supposed to go, right? That’s how it was going to happen, right? 

Before he even knew what happened, he was there, shoving into the backseat as Fujiko pressed the pedal to the metal, saying something that Lupin couldn’t understand to Jigen, who was raising himself to the sunroof and peeking out over the top of it, Magnum drawn and aimed, ready to shoot at anybody who  _ dared  _ try to stop that tiny little Fiat from speeding away. Lupin was barely even in his seat, and he was flung back into the leather, as were Goemon and the injured inspector who, at this point, was limp as a ragdoll, mouth open and wheezing like a fish who had the misfortune of jumping onto land. 

Right. Right. Zenigata. Right. 

Lupin managed to awkwardly push himself back into his seat and, in record time, clicked his seatbelt on, securing himself as Fujiko made a sharp turn that made the tires squeal uncomfortably. Desperately, he began to scrabble at his jacket as Goemon helped to rest the inspector’s head down on Lupin’s lap, supporting the man’s lower half on his own legs.

Finally, messily, the thief tugged his jacket off and folded it over itself, quickly finding where the blood was pouring from Zenigata’s chest and pressing the fabric against it. Though red already, it instantly became stained with a different shade of crimson. This shade was deeper and darker than anything the thief had ever seen before. It soaked right through to his hands, palms almost instantly overwhelmed with the warm wetness of Zenigata’s blood. 

He pressed down against the inspector’s chest before swallowing the lump beginning to form in his throat and forcing his gaze to meet Zenigata’s, whose eyes glittered soft with tears like shivering crystal pooling in his long eyelashes. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Lupin whispered between his teeth, fingers on his right hand slick with Zenigata’s blood as the left carded through his hair in a motion that was hopefully comforting and leaned over him, crowding him and filling up his spaces. The inspector’s hair, he noticed, had been recently cut, coarse and dark with streaks of grey peppering his sideburns and roots. It had started turning that color a few years ago, and Lupin always thought that it was so beautiful. So handsome and so charming and oh how well it fit the man lying before him. “you’re gonna be just fine, alright? You’re gonna be fine. I’ve got you--  _ we’ve got you--  _ and we’re driving right now, we’re speeding, and the hospital is only a few miles away and you’re gonna be just fine,” he spoke faster than he had ever spoken before, the words tumbling clumsily from his trembling mouth like bile. “you’re right here on my lap and I’m holding you and we’re going so fast and you’re going to be okay,” he repeated himself over and over, speaking it out to the world like a prayer to a God he didn’t believe in. Hoping that maybe, just maybe, if he said it enough, Zenigata really  _ would  _ be okay. Because he had to. He  _ had to. _

The world around the little yellow Fiat was speeding past through the windows as Fujiko weaved expertly between cars and past blurs of buildings and bright red lights and dull glows that spilled from restaurants and streetlamps, her fingers gripping the steering wheel so hard that her pretty, rosy knuckles turned pale, paper white. Green, almost, as a matter of fact. 

Jigen, who was climbing down from the sunroof, gun back in its holster, was using her shoulder to steady himself as she made several sharp turns and the car damn near flipped itself over. He was saying something to her, loud and quick and frantic, and Lupin couldn’t hear him. Fujiko replied, her mouth moving (smeared lipstick, blood clinging to the pearly whites of her teeth from when she had been punched half an hour ago as their heist fell to rubble) but no words coming out. Goemon was silent. He was holding tight to Zenigata’s lower half. Maybe his thumbs were rubbing patterns into the man’s ankles. Maybe tears were clinging to his eyes. 

Momentarily, just to check on their surroundings, Lupin lifted his head, straightening his back and looking out at the windows and the rearview mirror. There were sirens behind them, blue and red lights flashing blindingly as police cruisers sped after them despite the fact that the group of outlaws was trying to save one of their own. The irony hit Lupin softly, and it was not funny and it did not sting as he held and protected the very man who swore to throw him and his friends behind bars.

He had always sworn that-- always swore that he was going to put Lupin and the others away for good. All triumphant and loud as though it really, truly meant something, as though he actually, one day  _ would.  _ As though his fate wasn’t to retire with Lupin, as though they weren’t supposed to grow old together and become best friends and share drinks and laugh about a past where they played an endless game of cat and mouse because they loved each other too much to finish it.

But he still said that he would win, because he was just that determined. He always was. It was one of Lupin’s favorite things about him. It was admirable, to be honest, because no matter how many times he fell, no matter how many times he was shoved to the ground, he got right back up, for that’s simply who he  _ was. _

Loud and passionate and bigger than life as he continued his ever-lasting chase. That’s who he was.

“Lupin…” his cracked, soft voice whispered, and the thief’s attention was torn away from the outside whizzing by and instead he focused all of his senses on the man lying in his lap. His heart ached terribly. 

It was not Zenigata-- it couldn’t be. He did not look loud or passionate or bigger than life, not right now. He looked small. Quiet. Weak. “Lupin,” he said again, and there was this tone, this cadence to his otherwise gruff voice that struck… it struck  _ something  _ in the thief’s chest. Lupin had never heard his name said like that before. Not in his entire life. 

“What is it? I’m here, I’m right here, Pops, tell me what you need, okay? Do you want me to apply more pressure to your wounds? Because I can-- I am, I’m doing that right now, okay? It’s going to hurt, but you’ll be alright, you know that. You’re gonna be fine, okay? Because I’m right h--”

A finger, soft and warm and tender, pressed against his trembling lips. And then, so, achingly slowly, Zenigata traced along his cupid’s bow, fingertip pressing to his skin as it softly brushed down to his jawline and traced all the way up to the shell of his ear until his palm cupped the thief’s cheek so delicately, so sweetly, as though he was holding glass. Lupin’s breath hitched in his throat. Zenigata’s eyes glowed in the dim light of the dark city. They were amber, weren’t they? Pools of molten gold when hit by the right light, hidden behind warm, kind brown.

“Zenigata, listen, I’m right here, okay? I’m right here Ze--  _ Koichi,  _ Koichi I’m right here. I’m right here,” Lupin whispered, feeling his vision grow blurry, a knot forming in his throat, tight and hot. He couldn’t seem to stop speaking. He couldn’t shut up.

But then, Zenigata smiled, thumb rubbing slow, slow circles against the hot skin of Lupin’s cheek, gaze softening to a degree the thief had never before seen, not on anybody in the entire world.

Suddenly, everything seemed so silent. Even the rumble of the engine and wails of the sirens had been completely muted. 

Right now at that moment, it was just Lupin the Third and Inspector Zenigata. Arsène and Koichi. Koichi and Arsène. Cat and mouse. 

“Guess you won the game after all, huh?” Zenigata smiled, the spark in his eyes still the same as ever. Lupin’s throat tightened even further. 

“No, nonononono,” he whispered, not trusting his voice to stay steady if he were to speak aloud. “the game isn’t over. I haven’t won and you haven’t lost because it isn’t  _ over.  _ You’re going to be alright, okay? Do you hear me?”

Zenigata coughed. Flecks of red splattered across Lupin’s face. His hand fell from the thief’s cheek, leaving a familiar warmth in its wake.

He took a ragged breath as Lupin placed  _ his  _ hand on the inspector’s cheek, holding him tightly, eyes flicking across every scar, every freckle, every wrinkle on Zenigata’s face. A face he knew so well. A face he had long since mapped out and, affectionately, memorized.

Zenigata leaned into the thief’s palm, reaching up with his wet, crimson hand and holding it. His grip was so loose. There was no strength in his blood-soaked fingers. 

“Oh, Lupin,” he smiled, gaze locked with the thief’s. 

“I’m here, I’m right here. It’s me,” Lupin replied frantically. Zenigata’s cheeks were so  _ warm.  _ Please, oh dear God  _ please,  _ let them stay warm. 

Zenigata hummed weakly, blinking slowly, and for a moment, it seemed as though he was going to keep his eyes closed. However, he didn’t, and forced them open,. His smile was gentler than it had ever been before. 

“Of course it is, Lupin,” he said. “of course, it’s you. It is always you.” 

Without so much as a warning, Fujiko yelled something and swerved the car to the side, everybody being jostled violently and slamming to the right. Lupin leaned over Zenigata protectively, cradling his face and making sure that he didn’t hurt himself even more, holding him so tight, as though at any moment he would simply disappear. The car was flung back into place, abrupt and rough and everybody yelped as heads bonked against windows and toes were stubbed and knuckles were reddened when they accidentally slammed against the hard walls of the car. Fujiko let out a hasty apology, easing into a new lane, this time much, much smoother, the passengers of the car adjusting once more, shuffling in their seats. 

“It always  _ will _ be,” Zenigata said in the silence that followed. Lupin looked down at him, searching his face, ready to ask exactly what he meant by that, lips parted curiously, eyebrows knit together, the question lingering on the very tip of his tongue. He was stopped short, however, when he was met with the inspector’s expression.

It was as though all of the stars from the sky had fallen right into his pupils. It looked so familiar, yet so foreign. Comforting and honey-sweet and warm like a summer afternoon, like the golden light that spills in through your bedroom window at half-past five. 

It looked like home. 

“It always  _ has _ been.” 

Lupin frowned, tearing his eyes from Zenigata’s for a moment to look up at where they were going, at how close they were to the hospital. By this point, it was only about ten minutes away. At the rate Fujiko was going, though, they’d get there in five. 

His head turned down, but his eyes did not follow, still locked on the road ahead.

Zenigata’s hand was no longer pressed to Lupin’s.

“We’re so close to the hospital, Pops, just hang on a little longer, okay? You’re gonna be fine, you’re gonna be fine. You’re going to make it. We’re so close. We--”

His eyes locked once more with Zenigata’s.

They were dull. The light was all gone. It had all spilled out in flecks of stardust and memories, leaving an empty husk. 

He was so  _ warm.  _

“Hey, Pops?” Lupin asked quietly. Goemon was looking at him, as was Jigen. He didn’t notice. Fujiko’s eyes were staring at him from the rearview mirror, filled with concern, sticky with fat tears. He didn’t notice. “Pops?” He said again, searching the man’s expression for something,  _ anything,  _ waiting for him to spring up and grin and exclaim that it was all a joke, that he was fine, that he was… that he was  _ alive. _

Lupin’s voice was nothing more than a mere whisper, an empty prayer on a sinner’s lips that came in the form of one word and one word only. 

_ “Koichi?”  _

\---

It was a bigger funeral than Lupin had expected. Held in Japan, of course, and attended by almost everybody on the force as well as Toshiko and her mother, neither of which were crying, but both of whom looked as though they had lost some sort of essential piece in their little, broken family.

Toshiko, Lupin noticed from where he sat on the foldable metal chairs outside in front of the casket, had grown into a beautiful young woman, and yet was so very clearly Zenigata’s child. She had that same bow-legged stance, walking with her chest first, her shoulders broad, and that smile of hers was taken directly from the inspector’s image. He remembered how many times he had seen her as a young girl-- never in person, but she was Zenigata’s pride and joy, and he would take any opportunity to flash whatever photographs he had of her. Lupin wished he had listened more to Zenigata as he rambled on and on about his incredible daughter. 

The group of thieves was heavily disguised, dressed in all black, faces caked with age-makeup to make them seem like complete and utter strangers. They had done such an excellent job at hiding themselves, in fact, that twice, Lupin almost lost one of his friends in the crowd. 

The service was quiet. A few people got up to the podium to speak, recalling the softest stories from their catalog of memories to tell to every tear-stained face sitting in the many, metal chairs, a gentle spring breeze interrupting their speeches every so often, the push of the soft wind seemingly enough to shatter them and they would have to stop, voices breaking, shoulders heaving, before regaining their composure and continuing. 

Lupin didn’t cry, not even once. He couldn’t. He just stared at the casket, knowing that inside was Zenigata, looking as peaceful as if he were sleeping, his corpse polished and primped to make it seem like he was resting. Merely closing his eyes for a moment or two as he lay, arms crossed, in a casket full of snow-white chrysanthemums. 

The air was thick with the stench of the heavily fragrant petals. It made Lupin feel sick. 

The four of them left early per Lupin’s request. Jigen drove, Goemon in the passenger seat as Fujiko tried to rub comforting shapes into the thief’s shoulders while they sat next to one another in the backseat. However, every time her fingers would inch closer, he tensed up, scooched away-- he did not want to be touched. He did not want to be  _ seen.  _ He just wanted to go home, and he wanted to fall asleep, and then he wanted to wake up and realize that it was all just a bad dream.

That’s all it could be, though. There wasn’t any other option other than “just a bad dream,” because this was all this was. Zenigata was fine because he always was. Like Lupin, he was practically invincible; seriously, nothing could keep that man down, and he himself would be the first to tell you. What about his job? His duty? What about everything he had set about doing? What about capturing his rival-- and then, inevitably, because they were not meant to hate each other, sharing a drink with that same man? 

Jigen hit a pothole. Everyone jolted slightly. Lupin stared at a dark crimson stain on the carpet floor of the Fiat, slowly turning brown, a large, smeared spot of blood that they hadn’t been able to wash out. It couldn’t possibly be real. He closed his eyes tight, leaning forward, pressing his forehead into the back of Goemon’s seat, rubbing deep into his eyes. Deep enough that it began to hurt. Deep enough that he saw stars and swirls and little imprints of faces he knew and had long since forgotten. 

When he removed his hands and his eyelids fluttered open, it took a moment for his vision to adjust, first going blurry, and then dark ‘round the edges, and then, finally, back to normal again. The stain was still there, and it was still slowly, oh so slowly browning as it grew old, and he was still staring at it. 

Had that  _ truly  _ been Zenigata’s fate? To die in the arms of somebody that he could never capture? Being jostled around in a car, speeding through the night, being chased by police officers? Shot by someone who was supposed to be working with him? Was that  _ actually, really  _ how he had gone out? 

There had been many, many times where both the thief and the inspector paused their game and joined forces, forgetting all about rivalries and playful chases so that they could work side by side. Sometimes, these little truces would last for days, weeks, even months on end. Zenigata and Lupin had shared dingy hotel rooms together, slept on the same bed as their arms wrapped around one another, holding on-- _ clinging--  _ to the warmth of another body. To the familiarity. And sometimes, just sometimes, during one of these strange, nights, these intimate, vulnerable, gentle moments, Lupin and Zenigata would get to talking. 

It would start out small. Almost to the point of pleasantries. But, as the clock ticked on, as they shuffled closer to one another, their voices would get quiet. Like children at a sleepover, blanket over both of their bodies so that their parents couldn’t hear them staying up past their bedtime, they would talk with hushed voices. Whispering secrets that neither one of them would ever tell to  _ anybody  _ else, not in the whole entire world. 

Zenigata, one cold January night somewhere along the coast of Alaska, sat against the bed of their shared hotel room staring out at a window that just about covered the whole damn wall. It revealed all the night sky, stars dimmed from light pollution, moon fat and high over the icy cold waters. He pat the space next to him on the hotel’s carpet, clearly inviting Lupin to join, and who was Lupin to turn down an invitation? 

So, the thief slipped next to him, bringing the blanket that sat atop the mattress and covering both of their legs, huddling so close, so, so  _ close  _ to Zenigata. He smelled like cigarettes and coffee grounds. 

And then, Zenigata told him how he thought he would die. He turned to Lupin, eyes wistful, smile soft on his lips and he said 

“I think you’ll be there, you know. When I finally bite the dust. I think you’ll be there,” 

and Lupin had turned to him, head cocked, and said “Yeah?”

and Zenigata replied “yeah. You’ll be there, and it’ll be real peaceful, I think. Maybe I’ll be in a hospital, or maybe just at home. I’ll die from old age, and you’ll be sitting next to me, and I’ll take your hand in mine and I’ll finally tell you that, after all this time, I had been so in love with you.”

And then, Lupin remembered that he had thrown his head back and laughed so loud he swore it echoed across the water, but it took several moments for the inspector to join. He did, though, knocking his head to the thief’s affectionately, their voices loud and sure to wake up a few unhappy neighbors. 

When their grins finally faded into smiles and their eyes held a gentler, more calm light and their voices grew quiet, Lupin dared to rest his head against Zenigata’s shoulder, who didn’t care, not even a bit. Lupin told him that yeah. Yeah, he would be there. And Zenigata said he was glad. And then, Lupin thought that just for a moment, the inspector’s pinky inched out and touched his hand, thought that maybe their fingers would intertwine, but Zenigata pulled away and crossed both of his arms over his stomach.

Jigen hit another pothole. Once again, everybody in the Fiat jostled, grunting softly as shoulders knocked and asses bumped uncomfortably against the seats, and the gunman apologized quietly, shifting gears as he changed lanes, hand loose on the steering wheel, cigarette loose between his lips, hat loose atop his head. Lupin stared at him for a moment, looking at the back of his head, at the little scar that ran along the width of his neck, at the natural bump of his boney, thin nose. How did he feel? Did he hurt as bad as the thief? Was he as sick? Stomach churning as hard, head pounding as violently? Was Lupin making a bigger deal out of this than he needed to, or was everybody else feeling that cold, hard emptiness as well? 

He had half the mind to ask but kept his lips sealed, kept it to himself, and leaned forward once more to press his forehead to the back of Goemon’s chair. This time, when Fujuko’s cautious hands found his shoulder, he let her touch him. He didn’t mind so much. In fact, he craved the warmth. 

Not hers. For though he loved her, his mind was on a different set of hands, strong and calloused and so much bigger than his own and covered in scars with hairy knuckles, soft from vegetable salve and coconut oil because he loved to cook whenever he could (which was not often). 

No, not hers. 

But he appreciated the comfort. Leaned into it. Even though it wasn’t enough, even though it wasn’t  _ him, _ even though it would never be him again, Lupin still found that suddenly, he craved it. 

When they arrived at their hotel, they went into separate rooms, slept in separate beds, and each had separate nights. And then, in the morning, they woke before the sun rose and sat together in the stuffy Fiat once more for hours on end to go back home.

It didn’t feel like home. It felt like a small apartment with two bedrooms and an AC that had broken three months ago. 

Lupin avoided everybody the instant he stepped through the threshold, removing his shoes and dropping his overnight bag at the entrance, and walking across the living room in complete, utter silence. Something tugged at his chest, pulling hard, making his knees weak and his head hurt. 

He shuffled into his bedroom and clicked the door silently shut, fingers lingering on the cold, brass handle before he walked as though he was underwater to his bed. He had made it before he left, and it was neat and clean and fresh and just waiting for somebody to use it. He despised it. Wished that he was back in the hotel near Zenigata’s hometown, wished that he was still at his grave. Wished he had stayed to see his casket lowered into the ground so that maybe, just maybe, he could say…  _ something.  _ Could say whatever it was that had been stuck between the roof of his mouth and his tongue ever since he realized that Zenigata was going to die. 

Even before then, as a matter of fact. There was always something that he had wanted to say. But he just couldn’t say it. He didn’t know if he ever would. It scared him too much. 

He crawled into the mattress, not bothering to undress, not caring that it was the middle of the day, and not even batting an eye when a soft knock came at his door and Jigen’s rough, cigarette stained voice told him that he was going to cook an omelette. 

The thought of eating anything made Lupin want to throw up, so he just buried his face into his pillow, taking a deep breath, closing his eyes, feeling the weight of his bones begin to sink into the sheets below. He would eat later, probably. He just had to sleep, first. Had to rest his eyes, which weighed down as though pennies were placed atop each one of his lids. The cotton of his pillowcase was cool against his cheek, and it smelled like Fujiko’s shampoo. He focused on that. 

His room felt entirely too bright, the sun pouring in through his windows and scattering out across his back, across his mattress, across his floorboards. Across every bad habit he had tucked away and hidden-- porno mags, cartons upon cartons of cigarettes, guns and ammo and hunting knives that he sometimes tucked into a garter depending on what particular disguise he was wearing for what particular heist. He wished it would all go away for a moment, wished that his identity would melt into the chipped paint on his dirty, nicotine-yellowed walls, wished that he was not a thief, and wished for some alternate reality to come swallow him whole. One where Zenigata didn’t join the ICPO, one where they met somewhere  _ normal  _ like a bar or a club or a coffeehouse and spent their time chatting over bottles of wine and plates of food instead of through quick, snarky remarks as they ran in circles ‘round each other. 

Of course, though, all of this was a lie. Lupin never wanted to be anything but a thief, it was in his blood. Just as much as being a cop was in Zenigata’s. And he couldn’t imagine a world where they were anything but the cat and the mouse. Could they ever be anything  _ more  _ than that? Yes, there had been some degree of friendship, but did Lupin actually ever enjoy the inspector’s company? Did he ever see him as anything but a bumbling idiot who couldn’t ever catch a break? 

Lupin’s gut twisted, and he felt bile rise to his throat. He hadn’t eaten much of anything since Zenigata died, so anything that he puked up from his roiling stomach would just be pure acid. Guilt flooded every crevice in his body, leaking into his mouth and hands, stinging the tips of his toes and the crown of his head and lying heavy and ugly on his back. It turned his body around with hands like ice, forcing him to face the ceiling, forcing him to look up and open his eyes as those hands clamped down around his throat and asked him so softly,  _ what did he ever mean to you? Why are you so sad? _

And then he just lay there, pondering those questions, rolling them around over his tongue, mouthing them over and over and over until each syllable sounded like gibberish. Until the words muddled together, hazy and blurry, until they were nothing more than noise. He couldn’t answer either question. He didn’t know how. He was too afraid. He was much, much too afraid. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling far too hot in his skin, sweat pooling at the nook between his shoulder and neck, beading at his forehead, sliding slowly down his cheek. Was the heater on? Was it just hot? For some reason, it didn’t register to him that it was late August and the cicadas were still blaring away outside, singing their mournful song into the sun as it remained high in the sky, far too hot and far too bright and far too  _ much.  _

He could feel the heat licking away at his chest and lower back, creeping down into his palms and up his legs. He wanted to get up. Wanted to strip off his jacket and peel away his shirt, wanted to slip into a cold bath and turn out the lights and just let himself cool down in the water for a moment, but he couldn’t find the motivation to get up. Couldn’t find the energy, the strength, the anything to just push himself up to his elbows and swing his legs out of bed. 

Maybe he should just fall asleep. Call it a day, for it had certainly been (another) long one, maybe bid his friends goodnight if he could just find it in him to move a little bit. Just shuffle around. Prove that he was still alive.  _ Something.  _

As he thought about moving and whether or not he actually could, there was a knock at his door, soft, occurring three times over, and Jigen’s voice behind it. 

“Lu?” He called, sounding dehydrated. “Hey, man. There’s food in the kitchen, I think you should come eat,” 

Lupin didn’t answer. Now that he was actually being spoken to, he realized that he did, in fact, just want to fall asleep. Wanted to sink into the mattress, wanted the creaky springs to get tangled in his bones and his hair and his skin, and never wanted to talk to anybody ever again. He turned away from the door so that his back was facing it, eyes glued to the wall. 

“Hey, come on, please eat something,” Jigen said again, and there was a small thump at the door, muffled and heavy, as though he had just put his head against the wood. “Goemon said it tasted good. Hear that?  _ Goemon  _ said it. And he never likes my food. So this omelette ought to be a real kicker, huh?” 

Once again, nothing. Lupin didn’t want to respond. He didn’t want to  _ not  _ respond, either, though. For as much as he didn’t want to see or hear from anybody at all, he desperately longed for some form of contact, some form of comfort. 

But, of course, he was selfish. And his friends were not the people he wanted comfort from. 

His door clicked open and then creaked on its squeaky, old hinges. The sound of socks sliding over hardwood filled the room, quiet and subtle, and then, without even turning around and looking, Lupin knew that Jigen was standing beside his bed. 

“I know you’re awake, man,” he said, barely above a whisper. His voice was so  _ earnest,  _ so quiet. “I need you to eat something. Fujiko needs you to eat something. Goemon needs you to eat something. How many days has it been since you’ve last had a proper meal, ah?” He leaned forward, knee falling into the mattress, which squeaked loudly in protest at the sudden shifting weight. Lupin flinched slightly, and then fully when he felt long fingers press into his shoulder. Jigen must’ve felt it, for he quickly drew his hand back, murmuring an almost silent apology. 

There was a moment where neither of them spoke, where it was just the sounds of somebody dishing out plates onto the kitchen counter and drawers opening and closing and the fan in the living room squeaking with effort as it tried in vain to cool down the apartment. 

“Please eat,” Jigen finally said, no longer using his voice. “I don’t think I’ve seen you take more than a few bites out of anything since Pops died, and that isn’t healthy. You’re killin’ yourself, Lu,” the gunman begged. 

When Lupin didn’t answer, he sighed, patting his hand down twice on the sheets, which made a quiet  _ pomf pomf  _ sound before he stood up. Without another word, he shuffled back to the door and closed it shut behind him, the creak of the hinges damn near deafening. It filled the hot, stuffy room. The sun had shifted, and cast long shadows across the floor, drowning everything in honey and gold.

That was how the next couple of days dragged on. Lupin stayed in his room, primarily in his bed, the sheets of which had remained undisturbed except for a few wrinkles which marked where exactly he would lay. He had managed to shower once in the course of a week, but after that, he lay in pyjama pants and a wife-beater until he fell asleep or one of his friends dragged him from his room to eat something. He would try-- he really, actually would-- finishing plates with the speed of a sloth, chewing for far too long of a time, eyes glazed over and staring at nothing in particular as he struggled to remember how to swallow. It was, of course, all in vain, because he would end up emptying his stomach only half an hour later. He couldn’t stand to keep anything down, not when his head was pounding so hard and he was feeling queasy and sick with guilt and shame and regret every moment of every day.

In response to his lack of self-care, Goemon, Jigen, and Fujiko all took turns attempting to get him to just be normal for a day or two. They tried to tempt him with his favorite restaurant, tried to explain to him that if he could just go outside and walk around for a bit, he’d feel better, if he could just  _ please  _ get out of bed  _ once,  _ he wouldn’t hurt so bad. 

Lupin hated them for it. Despised their very guts.

Or at least that’s how it felt. 

For no, of course, he didn’t  _ actually  _ hate them, because, despite the fact that they were aching and hurting just like he was, despite the fact that they were all so exhausted, despite the fact that their heads probably couldn’t shake the image of Zenigata, bloodsoaked and limp, heart no longer beating, lungs no longer breathing as he fell slack against Lupin in the back of the Fiat, they were still trying what they could to keep the thief alive. 

So no, he didn’t hate them for trying to help. But he hated that they felt sorry for him. Hated that every time he slunk out of his room for water or to go to the bathroom, he was faced with their sympathetic stares, borderline pity lining their solemn eyes, mouths constantly on the cusp of saying something but quickly silencing themselves. Lupin wished that they would just speak up. Just tell him what was on their damn minds instead of beating around the bush, instead of dancing around a subject that was so obviously, painfully there. He understood that maybe the others wanted to be gentle about it, didn’t want to mention the inspector, but didn’t they know that they were only making it worse? He could barely breathe, could barely move, and their condolences drowned him like molasses, far too heavy and far too sticky sweet and so very suffocating. 

_ Come on, now,  _ he had wanted to shout one afternoon when he caught Fujiko staring at him with those big, doe eyes of hers from across the living room, coffee cradled in her hand. The steam curled up from the black liquid and framed her thin, porcelain face.  _ Come on, now, just spit it out, don’t gawk! Don’t just fucking sit there opening and closing your mouth like a damned guppy! _

Of course, though, he did not say that. He just looked down at the kitchen countertop where he stood, making rings with the condensation of his water glass into the black tile, fingertip wet and cold, which he supposed felt good in the sweltering August heat. 

Jigen and Goemon had left somewhere earlier that day, and Lupin thought that he heard them call him from behind his door, but to be honest, he was so zoned out that he didn’t process their words. His ears had been ringing all day, and all he could think about was how  _ tired  _ he was. The deepset bags beneath his bloodshot, raccoon-dark eyes were enough to prove that. 

He wondered when they would be home. For now, though, it was just him and Fujiko, and they hadn’t really talked since he came out of his room, not really. She saw him and said that she was glad he was up, and she kissed his cheek and he let her because even though he knew it was all out of pity, even though he knew that she was just trying to get a normal reaction out of him, the contact felt good. She was warm and she was soft and she was familiar, and he needed that right now; he needed warmth and softness and familiarity. 

Fujiko took a sip of her coffee at long last, blowing daintily across the surface before holding it to her lips as her eyes fluttered closed. She held the mug with both hands, tapping a few times on the ceramic surface with bitten-down, chipped nails. She hadn’t been too concerned with getting them done-- as a matter of fact, she wasn’t any better off than Lupin. Her hair had lost some of its curl and became frizzy and greasy at the roots, and she wore makeup less and less. Lupin frowned as he looked at her, eyes grazing over her tired figure, and realized just how selfish he had been to hole himself up in his room and not even  _ try  _ to make sure that the others were doing alright. 

All this time, they had cared so deeply for him, checking in on him and cooking for him and bringing him anything that he needed, but he hadn’t even done anything  _ remotely  _ close to that. Instead, he ignored their attempts to reach out to him, refused to speak to them when they came knocking gently at his door, and didn’t seem to care even a little bit about  _ their  _ health, even though it was clearly just as bad as his. 

Absently, he worried at his lower lip, head buzzing. “Hey, Fuj,” he said softly, and he swore it was the first time he had heard himself talk in ages. “hey,” he said again, not because she didn’t hear him, but because he wanted to make sure that this was  _ really  _ his voice. He sounded like shit. Broken and tired and weak and everything Lupin the Third wasn’t. 

“Hey, Lupin,” Fujiko replied, her tone equally as quiet, yet sweeter. It was not rough, it did not sound completely and utterly exhausted, it was just  _ gentle.  _ She smiled, lips curving ever so slightly, the dimple in her right cheek shallow but visible, the freckles around her eyes being moved as the skin there crinkled. She had the most beautiful smile. Lupin had missed it. “anything the matter?” 

“No, sorry, I--” Lupin began, searching for the words to describe that all he wanted to do was check up on her. Let her know that he was still there, even though he  _ wasn’t,  _ try and get her to understand that he would get better soon, he really would, it would just take time. He just needed time. “I just wanted to say something to you, that’s all. I know I haven’t been talking much, lately, and…” 

His voice trailed off as she stood up, putting her mug down on the coffee table in front of the couch with a soft, muffled clinking sound. In her pyjama pants and the enormous sweater she had stolen from Jigen several years back, hair pulled back into a ponytail, she strode forward, shaking her head gently. “Don’t,” she spoke quietly, head tilting ever so slightly. “don’t. You aren’t under any obligation to apologize or anything if that’s what you’re doing,” 

Her face fell as she stood in front of him. She was almost his height, just a few inches below, and taller than him with heels. The afternoon light tumbled in through the kitchen window and got tangled in her messy, red hair, illuminating the rings of molten chocolate in her solemn eyes. When she took a deep breath, it stuttered, and Lupin could see the way tears were beginning to form on her eyelashes, her eyes glossy and glistening. “Lupin,” she began quietly, and all Lupin could do was nod his head, feeling a lump begin to form in his throat, tight, hot, and uncomfortably hard to swallow. 

He closed the gap, taking a deep breath and burying his nose into her shoulder, nuzzling close as his arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her into him. He squeezed his eyes shut. He was not going to cry-- he hadn’t this whole time, and he wasn’t going to start now. But he was crashing. It was getting harder and harder. Every time he laid down to go to sleep, every time he closed his eyes, every time he was stuck in silence, he could see Zenigata’s eyes and his lips and the blood spilling from his chest and drying beneath his fingernails, could hear his ragged breath as he uttered his last, gentle words that Lupin had yet to understand the meaning to. 

_ “Lupin,”  _ Fujiko said again as she held tight to him, her arms warm around his neck, fingers soft and carding through his dirty hair. He could feel the way she was shaking, the wetness in his shoulder of her fat, messy tears spilling down her cheeks and pooling at her chin, could hear the hiccups and incomprehensible babble that she tried to piece into full sentences but was too tired to do so.

Together they stood in the kitchen, holding on to one another for dear life, confused and aching in places that neither knew they  _ could  _ ache in. Had Zenigata truly impacted them so much? Were they actually that close to him? Or was this all just because death was something neither of them could properly understand, just because they knew they would never see him ever again? 

Lupin thought back to Alaska, thought back to how  _ vulnerable  _ Pops had been, how he was so willing to just gut himself right then and there. Speaking in such a quiet voice, so comforting despite how he was obviously stressed about something, letting Lupin lean so close to him, letting him in, even if it was only for a single night. 

For some reason, the joke he had made-- the one where he confessed his love to Lupin-- it stuck in the thief’s head, etched itself to his skull. It was an odd thing to say, especially during such an intimate moment, Lupin thought, but he supposed that maybe Pops was simply using humor to cope with… with  _ whatever  _ he had been feeling during that soft moment in the darkness of their shared hotel. 

Fujiko pulled back first, not forcefully so, but Lupin got the message and loosened his grip on her, stepping back and holding her gently at arm’s length before letting his arms go limp, dropping them to his sides, fingers brushing her shoulders. He looked her over, gaze lingering on her puffy, red eyes and the dark circles beneath, how her frown was so intense that it left dimples in her perfect chin. He couldn’t do anything to help her feel better. She just had to  _ feel.  _

“Goemon and Jigen,” she whispered hoarsely, placing the back of her hand to one of her eyes as she leaned into it, a hiccup shaking her shoulders softly, interrupting her shaky breath. “They told you where they went, right? Because I think now is the time to follow,” 

Lupin frowned, furrowing his brow. “I don’t think I heard what they said,” he replied slowly. “where are we going?” 

Fujiko worried her bottom lip for a moment or two but didn’t say anything. Instead, she shook her head, sniffling wetly. “I’m going to to get dressed,” she murmured, turning on her heel and walking away from the kitchen, her shadow lingering behind her as she rounded the corner and walked in silence to the bathroom, where her overnight bag had been sitting on the countertop for almost two weeks, now. 

Lupin stayed in the kitchen for what felt like years. He couldn’t bring himself to move, for it felt as though his feet were planted into the very tile of the floor, binding him to one place forever. 

A pinch to his nose woke Lupin right up, and he bolted ramrod straight from where he sat in the back of a taxi, Fujiko hovering above him just outside of his door, smiling a sweet, familiar smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Behind her, the darkness of twilight was swallowing up the orange sky, and a street lamp buzzed to life from above, casting shadows across her features. 

The cab driver was awkwardly staring at the thief, waiting for him to get a move on. That, or to tip him. Awkwardly, Lupin unbuckled his seatbelt and began to fumble with the front pocket to his pants, only to have Fujiko carefully take his wrist in her cold, thin hands. 

“I already paid him,” she assured softly, and Lupin met the man’s gaze once more. 

“Sorry,” he murmured, quickly sliding out of the backseat and stumbling onto the sidewalk, slamming the door shut behind him, cheeks hot with embarrassment as Fujiko reached up to adjust his hair, which had been mussed up during their drive. 

The thief took a moment and looked around, eyes sweeping over oddly familiar street names and corner stores and sidewalks. He knew that he recognized this place, but he wasn’t entirely sure from  _ where  _ or  _ how.  _ He just knew that he had been here before, but not actually enough to name it just based off of a gas station he saw across the street. 

The only direction he did not look was behind him, focusing more on the area in front, wondering what Jigen and Goemon could  _ possibly  _ be doing for so long at a few ramshackle supermarkets with broken sliding glass doors and flickering lights. He turned to Fujiko, tired confusion painted across his face as he shoved his thumbs into the pockets of his pants, but her attention was directed elsewhere. More specifically, she was staring straight ahead, lips parted slightly as though she was going to say something, eyes growing wet. 

Lupin slowly turned around, and suddenly, before he even saw the building, he knew where they were. When his gaze finally set itself upon Zenigata’s apartment complex, he felt all of the breath leave his body, every bone growing weak. His knees almost buckled-- almost, but not quite-- and it took his brain three or four moments to process that here he was, right in front of the inspector’s home. 

“The others figured that we should make sure that there aren’t any sensitive files in the old man’s apartment,” Fujiko said hoarsely, her breath stuttering. “seeing as, uh, he left it to us,” 

“Left it to us?” Lupin asked, mouth feeling like cotton. Fujiko nodded. 

“In his will. He left any remaining money he had to Toshiko, his daughter-- you remember her, she was the pretty young woman at his funeral? The one he always had photos of in his wallet?” 

“Of course, she looks just like him,” 

“Well, she reached out to us. Jigen and Goemon got into contact with her, and she said that Pops left any important heirlooms and anything of value with her, and then everything  _ else  _ is ours,” 

Lupin put his arm around her waist, squeezing her so softly, looking up at the building with a tight, pained smile that didn’t fit on his lips. 

“Probably just wanted to make us clean out his junk,” despite his best efforts, Lupin’s voice trembled. So did his upper lip. So did his whole damn body. 

He wasn’t the one to take the first step forward-- that was Fujiko, who held his hand  _ tight,  _ fingers lacing together, thumb rubbing over his skin to provide him with some sort of comfort, and he followed her, their pace slow. Goemon and Jigen were already inside, Fujiko had said. They had wanted to help Toshiko load up some of her things into the back of her car. According to them, she was a sweet girl, who laughed just like her father and had his exact sense of humor. Lupin wished that he had been there to help; he would’ve loved to meet her. 

The journey up to Zenigata’s apartment seemed much, much longer than it really was. Every step, every set of stairs, every elevator ride, every hallway seemed as though they would never end, though perhaps that was just wishful thinking. Because after staring at the ugly, yellow wallpaper of the halls and down at the forest green carpet and the water damage on the second floor that was being repaired and brushing against the splinter on the stairwell right below the seventh floor-- his floor-- there they were. Right at his door. Paint chipped and peeling, brass handle slightly green from being touched so many years. 

Lupin pressed his palm to the knob. He wondered how many times Zenigata’s own had held it, and he closed his eyes, trying to feel his hands. Big, calloused, yet soft at once. Always warm. In fact, whenever they worked together, whenever they simply shared drinks, whenever they were able to stop being an inspector and a thief and simply became two friends enjoying one another’s company, Lupin often joked that, since  _ his _ were so cold and Zenigata’s so warm, they were meant for one another. 

He turned it, hearing the  _ click  _ as the unlocked door opened, and pushed against it using his shoulder. The door didn’t quite fit right in its frame, so it took a little more effort than usual, and the bottom awkwardly scraped against the tile to the entrance. 

Inside, he heard the shuffling of plastic bags, the sound of conversation. Something was dropped and clattered to the floor. Somebody laughed. 

“Lupin! Hey,” Jigen was the first to greet the thief as he stumbled in, all of the breath being sucked out of him as he took a step through the threshold. “we’re cleaning up a little bit before the landlords come and trash everything,” the gunman’s voice softened, as did his expression. He had removed his hat and jacket, sleeves now rolled up to his elbows, shoes left at the front of the apartment. The air conditioner was running and the fan was on, but both were weak, and August’s hot, night air still weighed heavy and thick on everybody inside. 

“I am surprised that he left anything for us,” Goemon said, his sleeves tied back, a white bandana keeping his hair out of his face as he held up a large, dusty-looking book. According to the thick, cracked spine, it was an encyclopedia on birds. Had Zenigata liked bird-watching? 

“I’m not,” Fujiko said, kicking off her black flats and stepping down from the entrance step and onto the hardwood flooring, taking her hair from its ponytail and retyping it, pushing back her bangs and any loose strands that would fall over her eyes. “I’m not surprised at all. Where all have you guys managed to clear?” 

“It ain’t a big place,” Jigen sniffed, shrugging, flipping through another book. This one looked like a novel. Lupin couldn’t see the title from where he stood, and he didn’t want to step any further. “we covered most of it. Bathroom, kitchen… and now the living room.” 

“What about his bedroom?” Fujiko asked, and nobody answered. Their faces tightened, jaws setting, brows furrowing, and both the gunman and the samurai seemed to be  _ very _ interested in what they were doing. “...I see,” she nodded her head, looking down at the floor, bending over to pick up the item that had been dropped, a wooden statuette of Tsuchinoko, a Japanese yokai that resembled a very large snake.

Lupin still hadn’t said a word since he entered, still rooted to the spot. He looked around the apartment, at the plain lamps with yellow bulbs that provided the main source of light, at the big, green rug sitting beneath the oak coffee table, at the kitchen countertop and the flowered wallpaper and the soft, eggshell white paint covering the living room walls. With every breath, he could smell the lingering scent of tobacco cigarettes and cheap cologne and coffee grounds, the very essence of Zenigata. 

As a matter of fact, the inspector was everywhere in the little apartment, traces and hints of his existence could be seen in every nook, every cranny, every dish still in the sink, every shopping list forgotten on the refrigerator, every crack in every window and every fingerprint smeared on every surface. 

Slowly, Lupin pressed the toe of his right shoe to his left heel and shimmied out of it, doing the same to his right before scooting both to rest against the wall, a little less neat than the others as they sat in a pristine line-- flat next to flat next to loafer next to loafer next to sandal next to sandal. 

He stepped further in, slowly, shakily, hesitantly, his body urging him to just  _ leave,  _ to go back home, to pretend that Zenigata was fine. Because stepping into his apartment, breathing in the scent of old books and clean linen that he had left behind, touching the surface of his walls and countertop… it broke the spell. 

The spell that told Lupin if he concentrated hard enough, Zenigata was simply away for a little bit. He hadn’t died, he hadn’t bled out on Lupin’s lap, hadn’t reached out and tenderly cupped the thief’s cheek, hadn’t looked so  _ tired  _ and so  _ weak.  _ He could believe that Zenigata was still in the hospital, still being rehabilitated. That he would be back in a few weeks, and he would see Lupin, and he would smile. That Lupin would see him again. 

But there he was. 

Standing in Zenigata’s apartment, everything around him feeling holy, sacred, untouchable. Every scrawled note he had left for himself on sticky notes was scripture, every coffee-stained mug a gold-encrusted chalice, every sunken cushion on every couch and chair the pews to Zenigata’s personal temple, one filled with bad habits and quiet, gentle love. 

And memories.

Cracked, yellowed, faded memories.

They lingered like ghosts in every space that Lupin could see. 

Images of a man standing at the kitchen window, washing dishes as he dried his hands off on his pants to turn up his bright red transistor radio, of a man wiping down the coffee table with a rag, awaiting the arrival of his friends to come over with snacks and movies, of a man lying down on his tummy just below the big window on the far wall, using the light streaming in to read the enormous bird encyclopedia opened in front of him, fingers pressed to thin pages, tracing images of feathers and beaks and rounded little heads. Laughing his loud, boisterous laugh into the cream-colored rotary phone hanging up on the kitchen wall, pushing his sleeves up and tossing his sweaty hair out of his face as he doodled absently in the margins of official documents with black, ballpoint pen. 

“Zenigata is… dead,” Lupin said quietly. 

The others slowed their activities, stopped placing crumpled up pieces of paper into trash bags, stopped tracing over the patterns of his throw pillows, stopped sweeping the hardwood floors, and scattering dust bunnies as they went along. 

“He died.” Lupin spoke again, voice barely above a whisper, though in the quiet apartment it was deafening. 

“Yeah, Lu,” Jigen replied softly, his flicking back and forth across the thief’s face as if searching his expression for a sign of what he was feeling. “yeah, Lu, he died,”

Slowly, Lupin nodded, swallowing thickly as he turned away from his friends, shuffling towards the hallway. None of them followed, none of them said a word, none of them moved. 

His fingers brushed against the wallpaper, feet touching the junk portion of Zenigata’s belongings that Goemon, Jigen, and Toshiko had tossed into the hall to be thrown away later. Dirty old books and crinkled magazines, cartons of cigarettes, bottles of beer and soda, all lined with cobwebs, dead flies sticking to the syrupy sweet remains that lingered on the bottom. His eyes were locked on the door at the very end, a portal to another world, something that Lupin knew once he entered everything would be over. 

He reached out. The handle was cold. Nobody had even touched it. 

He turned it slowly, palms sweaty, hair standing up on his arms and the nape of his neck. 

He pushed into it. 

_ Close it,  _ his bones whispered to him. 

_ Close the door and leave, get away from this place, get out of here. So long as you keep it closed, he will still be inside. If you go inside and he isn’t there, then you will know for sure, you will actually know. So keep it closed. Pretend he is still inside. _

Lupin stepped into Zenigata’s room, and Schrödinger’s cat was dead. 

Zenigata was dead. 

Lupin repeated that phrase once more to himself, a second realization washing over him. He had already known in the living room. Hell, he had already known the very moment he looked out across the apartment and saw his friends, tired, worn to the bone, eyes soft, mouths weak. Zenigata had been dead for weeks.

...But now, he was  _ gone.  _

Lupin walked forward, shuffling in a slow spin as he went, socks sliding against the beige carpet, eyes roaming the walls. Zenigata had kept a few pieces of art on his wall-- the most notable being a small print of one of Joseph Lorusso’s work, the colors rich and thick as they always had been. It wasn’t worth anything; in fact, upon closer inspection, it appeared to be cut out of a poster. The thought made Lupin smile, just a small tug at each corner of his mouth.

There was a twin-sized bed with green covers, a color Lupin thought to be too bold for the timid man, and his pillows were white, a few shades lighter than the cream walls that held a long crack just behind the dresser. A lamp in the shape of a rooster sat upon his white wooden nightstand, but it had been turned off, which meant that the only light coming into the room was from the window on the other side of the bed whose curtains depicted small, springtime blooms. 

On the opposite wall was an enormous writing desk, the expensive kind, mahogany, and well-crafted with rounded feet and a chair to match, an old black rolling chair, some of the padding peeling away set beneath it. Right above this desk was a corkboard, and the sight of it made Lupin either want to laugh until he threw up or cry until he couldn’t breathe. 

Because, of course, this was Zenigata’s corkboard for Lupin. Red yarn connecting news clippings and photographs and articles printed from the library, messy notes scrawled onto ripped out stationary notebook pages, a few hand-drawn pictures of Lupin-- but they were nothing more than silly cartoons with cutesy round heads and circular hands. 

Lupin dared to walk closer and pressed his hand into the back of the chair, feeling it move slightly from the force of his palm. He looked out over years worth of research, of long, late nights and burnt midnight oil and hours upon hours of endless, nonstop effort. And all for what? To catch Lupin, throw him in jail, and then recapture him? The poor guy should’ve just killed the thief, to be perfectly honest. Maybe then he’d have caught a damn break. 

With slow, deliberate movements, Lupin swept his fingers across the surface. It wasn’t dusty, and there were a few ink stains that seeped into his skin, somewhat fresh. It was probably the last place that he had been other than his bed, which sat messy and unmade. 

Lupin turned away from the desk, feeling that familiar knot begin to form in his throat again. He refused to cry. He just  _ wouldn’t.  _ Zenigata wouldn’t have wanted that, right? Wouldn’t have wanted Lupin to give up on him, to be weak, to bawl his eyes out like a baby, right? And so, the thief forced himself to respect the alleged wishes of the dead inspector, trying to swallow the ever-growing lump, trying to ignore the wetness in his eyes as he crossed the room. 

He stepped in front of the nightstand, reaching out to flick on the lamp, light soft and a little dim beneath its shade; the bulb was going to burn out soon, Lupin could tell. He gazed down at the small, old bedside table, several chips missing from its corners, scratches lining its top, one leg longer than the rest, making it rock back and forth when the thief placed his hand atop it. 

There were two drawers, one small with a missing handle and a silver lock embedded into it, and the other large and partially left ajar, seemingly because it  _ couldn’t  _ close-- there was something wrong with it. Lupin bent down, putting one hand on the edge of the nightstand to brace himself as he pulled on the lower drawer, opening it with the loud noise of wood scraping against wood. 

Inside was… a key. That was it. Just a key, wedged into the back corner, dark and bronze and barely visible, as though Zenigata was attempting to hide it. It must open the top, Lupin thought, and he wedged his fingernails into the edge of the drawer in question and tried to open it as he tested his theory. It was certainly locked, as it simply wouldn’t budge, not even a millimeter, so he bent further down and reached inside the larger compartment. 

The key was cool against his skin, a comfortable weight that felt nice in his palm, smelling of copper pennies and old wood. Now that he was looking at it, it seemed a lot smaller than it was when he first saw it, and for a moment, he doubted himself; did it  _ actually  _ fit inside of the top drawer? 

He adjusted the key in his hand before slowly pushing it into the lock. It slid in smoothly and perfectly, and when he turned it, there was a satisfying  _ click!  _ that told him everything he needed to know. 

For a moment, he froze. Should he really be doing this? Should he actually go snooping through a dead man’s belongings? Especially those of which that had been locked inside of a drawer? Clearly, he didn’t want anybody getting into it, clearly, it was closed off from the rest of the world for a reason. It wouldn’t be fair to just uncover his secrets like that. More than that, it would simply be immoral. 

But Lupin was a thief. He was not a moral person. He was selfish and he was gross and he pulled the drawer open in one quick motion, a shockwave jolting up his body and making him get the shivers all throughout his neck and shoulders. He almost closed his eyes but decided that it would be too childish, so he stared down, throat scratchy and mouth dry as he soaked in the sight of… a book. 

A faux leather notebook, to be precise. Thin, the fabric soft against Lupin’s hands as he gingerly picked it up, treating it as though it were the most delicate treasure he had ever encountered. He frowned down at it, eyes flicking across the surface, looking for some sort of hidden meaning, something that could tell him a little bit  _ more  _ so that he didn’t have to open it and see for himself. 

However, it was just a plain cover. It told him nothing of the contents inside. And so he opened it. 

The pages were thin and worn, some ripped, others crinkling at the corners, others dog-ear folded with love. Upon further inspection, they all held dates-- it must be a diary, the thief realized as he flipped through intimate thoughts that he did not read. Some of the entries were made in pen, which smeared across the page and bled onto the next, creating muddled spots of words that Lupin had to squint to read. Others were made in pencil, the light, delicate graphite already beginning to fade away to be forgotten, lost in the white of the paper forevermore. Sometimes, Lupin came across a page that had several scribbles over several words. Sometimes, he would make multiple entries in a day. Sometimes, several full years would pass.

It dated all the way back to the beginning of the Lupin case-- for confirmation, the thief looked over the very first entry, and  _ yep,  _ he was there, penned to life by Zenigata’s deft hands, described as a “no-good, disgusting, monkey-faced scoundrel” that the inspector despised the guts of “with every fiber of my goddamned being.” Lupin chuckled. They  _ had  _ hated each other when they first met, hadn’t they? Complete opposites, complete enemies. He flipped forward a few pages. When he read the word  _ struggling  _ far too close to the word  _ wife  _ and  _ marriage  _ and  _ Toshiko,  _ he stopped paying attention, knowing that these details were not for his eyes.

So, he thumbed through it, not reading it completely, but merely skimming for keywords that had to do with him, skipping over more delicate phrases.  _ Wife, daughter, divorce,  _ were a few that he spotted and avoided.  _ Home, broken, hurt,  _ were a few others. 

On and on he flipped, the smell of old paper and spilled coffee filling his nose.  _ Interpol, tired, job, Lupin, co-workers.  _

He nearly got a papercut when he stopped to reread a page and then flipped to fast. He paused, placing his mouth over his index finger, before continuing at the same rate as before.

_ Case, tired, wife, Toshiko. Divorce. Divorce. Lupin. Divorce.  _

Clearly, these last few pages were painful for the inspector to write. There were places where the words muddled together in a sloppy mess, completely illegible, made so by large wet splotches that were scattered here and there. They were his tears. He had cried while writing some of these. 

_ Hate, tired, Interpol, Lupin, Jigen, work.  _

_ Work. Work.  _

_ Jigen.  _

_ Goemon. _

_ Lupin.  _

_ Fujiko.  _

_ Work.  _

_ Tired.  _

_ Arsène.  _

The thief immediately quit flipping through the pages, stopping short when he read his first name. His heart seized in his chest, and fear gripped every portion of his body, rendering him completely and utterly useless as he stared down at the familiar yet foreign word in the inspector’s messy handwriting. 

Zenigata had used his first name before, of course. He had said it with boiling anger hot beneath his skin, had said it in a wail, a desperate moan of sadness, had said it softly in the thief’s ear with so much tenderness that Lupin felt his head grow dizzy and heart thrum. 

But saying a name and writing it was different. 

This was not an official document. This was not a file to be added to Lupin’s case. This was not a record stating a crime the thief had committed. No, this was Zenigata’s personal journal, something that held secrets and thoughts he seldom let slip between his lips. He used the first names of his wife and daughter, but that was it. Nobody else. 

Nobody except Lupin. 

It was an entry made a year ago, and Lupin, too scared to properly ready it, skimmed through the words as he had done with the past pages. He found his name again, eyes seeming to be trained to that particular area, and then he found  _ hurt.  _ Next was  _ exhausted--  _ ah, tired enhanced-- and then he found  _ love.  _

His heart stopped for three paces. He swore it did. 

He looked over at the phrase again, the Japanese characters written so sweetly, so delicately, visibly lighter than the rest of the words. 

And then, he swallowed hard, and he could no longer stop the lump in his throat from burning and aching and he couldn’t clear the moisture from his eyes and he couldn’t stiffen his upper lip. Because, as he read, he realized that a year ago, Zenigata had fallen in love with him. And as he reluctantly flipped the page, as he skipped all the way to the end, as he gazed upon an entry written a month and a half ago, Zenigata had still been in love with him, pouring out something sweet and unbearably intimate about the beauty of Lupin’s name and the curve of his smile and knobbly knuckles of his hands and how he longed for their game of cat and mouse to go on forever if only it meant he could see the thief. 

_ “It always has been.” _

Lupin found that he could no longer be supported by his knees, which were wobbling so violently they were due to buckle at any second, now. So, weakly, he crawled into Zenigata’s bed, the warm light from the lamp pouring over his trembling body. He sunk into the mattress, holding the journal in his hand, clutching it tightly to his chest, head nuzzling into a flat pillow, body curling protectively around that messy confession of love. 

Zenigata’s bed smelled more like him than any other portion of the house, and his sheets were soft, and they were warm, and if Lupin closed his eyes and breathed in and pretended  _ just  _ hard enough, he could feel those strong hands at his side, could feel those sweet lips against his temple, those arms wrapping around his waist. 

His chest heaved, and he let out a wail.

The tears were pouring from his eyes, fat and heavy and constant, soaking into the pillowcase, pooling in the corner of the thief’s frowning mouth, streaking down his cheeks like a heavy rain against a delicate window. His chest rose and fell quickly, stomach churning violently, promising Lupin that he would puke up everything he hadn’t eaten, promising Lupin that he was going to be sick, that he was going to hurt for eternity. 

He buried his nose into the pillow, a shaky whimper escaping his lips. 

_ I love you,  _ he willed into the fabric, praying that it was enough.

His hands dug into Zenigata’s comforter, holding so tight that his knuckles paled considerably. 

_ I love you,  _ his palms and his fingernails and wrists begged into the cotton, praying that it was enough. 

His eyes squeezed shut, hoping to see Zenigata’s face once more behind his eyelids, hoping that maybe, when he opened them up again, the inspector would be there, smiling softly, leaning in so close, breath warm, skin warm, cheeks warm, intentions warm. 

_ I love you,  _ his eyelashes and the white scar across the bridge of his nose and his furrowed eyebrows urged to the empty space in front of him, praying that it was enough.

When peeled his eyes open, tears sticky on his vision, Zenigata was not there, and it was not enough. 

Lupin lay atop the inspector’s bed for some time, shoulders heaving so violently, teeth gritting and mouth whimpering words he wished that he had said, words that had been sitting patient and sweet on his tongue for so long that he nearly forgot they were there. 

When the shuffling of footsteps could be heard against the carpet, he did not notice and did not care. He was too busy aching with the guilt of a man who had spoken far, far too late, had let somebody who meant so much to him die right before his very eyes. 

The mattress creaked, shifting from a weight that was slowly crawling onto it, and still, the thief did not pay attention. He could hear it just fine, could feel it just fine, but he didn’t want to leave the position he was in. He was stuck, frozen in place, struck by a pain far worse than anything he had ever felt before in his entire life, a pain that sapped him of his strength. All of the fight left in him was gone. All of those loud, ugly wails and choking sobs, all of those whimpers and damning words directed at the unfair, horrible world… they were gone. 

And so, when Jigen pressed his forehead to the back of Lupin’s neck and shuffled closer, knees finding the dip between Lupin’s legs, hands finding his shoulders, all the thief could do was cry, shoulders shaking, quiet breaths puffing from his wet lips. 

Lupin felt the gunman’s eyelashes against his skin as his eyes must have closed, felt the way his thumb rubbed into his shoulder, the warmth of his stomach as he pressed ever closer. 

“Jigen,” the thief croaked, managing to whisper his best friend’s name in a hoarse, broken whisper. “Jigen, he…” 

“I know, Lupin,” Jigen replied softly, breath hot on the back of the thief’s neck. “I know he did.” 

And then Lupin fell silent because he couldn’t say anything more, didn’t have the energy to, didn’t have the heart to. And when Goemon and Fujiko quietly entered Zenigata’s bedroom, he did not lift his head, did not greet them. Instead, he only cried harder, more desperately, the ache in his stomach more like a stab wound now as his friends crawled into the bed. Goemon behind Jigen, and Fujiko behind Goemon, each curling up against one another’s forms, each wrapping their arms tightly ‘round the other. 

It was quiet, save for a few sniffles and muted, muffled whimpers. Lupin pressed back into the warmth of his friends, and he mourned,  _ oh  _ he mourned, he mourned, he mourned, deeper than the green ocean, deeper than the core of the very earth. It was all he could do. Because Zenigata was not coming back, and he never would. Because tomorrow, when Lupin woke up, his heart would ache like no pain he had ever experienced before, and he would long for the touch of someone completely and utterly unobtainable, and Koichi Zenigata would still be gone. 

**Author's Note:**

> lupin: haha pops u have a crush on me?? that's so embarrassing ahaha  
> zenigata's grave:


End file.
